


Elementary, My Dear Granger

by DreamingOfAndromeda, Poppyhall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, Ball python nagini, Consulting Tom, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Harry, Detectives, Doctor Hermione, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Murder, Médicins Sans Frontières | Doctors Without Borders, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingOfAndromeda/pseuds/DreamingOfAndromeda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poppyhall/pseuds/Poppyhall
Summary: After two years of travelling around the world as a Médicins San Frontiéres trauma surgeon, Doctor Hermione Granger has returned to London. She's got an ugly scar, a lot of student debt and no flat.Her luck seems to turn when a former St. Mungos professor introduces her to an old friend, Tom. He's got a shadowy consulting business, a large pet snake and a vacancy at 221B Baker Street.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This messy AU was created by Poppyhall and co-written with Dreaming-of-Andromeda. 
> 
> It's a little out of wack in terms of how the story is connected to events in the HP universe. Certain relationships between characters are maintained while others, like the connection between Harry and Sirius, don't exist. Also, some of the crimes in this story were inspired by those in the books, a majority of which involved Voldemort. For the sake of this story, ignore that. 
> 
> Basically, please bear with us! Tags will probably be updated as we go along, and all feedback is very appreciated. This is our first try at writing together and my (Poppyhall) first time writing at all! Wish us luck.
> 
> MSF = Médicins San Frontiéres = Doctors Without Borders. I noticed in most blogs and articles, employees refer to it as MSF, so we stuck with that.

Hermione had been at the Leaky Cauldron for two hours now.

In theory, she had come to the café to get work done – respond to emails, look at flat ads, pay bills. But she had spent most of her time staring out a large window, watching passerby avoid puddles.

When Hermione first left London, she hadn’t realized how much she’d miss it, and its particular brand of controlled chaos. Her life away from here had just been plain chaos – not that she minded.

Now, she couldn’t imagine being forced to settle down anywhere else. This brought her to her current predicament. Yes, she’d missed London, but she hadn’t missed the rent prices.

She really didn’t remember it being this hard to find a good place when she and the boys got their little flat after university. Hemione had loved that place. But she had always known what she wanted to do, and that meant leaving. She desperately wanted a challenge, and setting bones in a South London ER wasn’t quite enough. Hermione was barely out of surgical residency when she applied to MSF. Ron and Harry expected it, they were happy for her.

She wanted to save lives. To go where she was absolutely needed and serve as many people as possible. Hermione spent the last two years traveling the world with MSF. Any project that needed a trauma surgeon, she was there, whether it was a few weeks or a few months. In between projects she stayed at her parent's place, waiting for her next chance to do the most important work of her life.

Then she got shot. And now she was here.

When Hermione joined MSF, she understood there were risks. War zones. Trauma. Infectious disease. Even gunshot wounds. But she was unprepared for what came after. The life she had before in London, the one she put on hold two years ago, was not here anymore.

Ron got that job in Dublin last year. Harry wanted to be closer to the station after his promotion. When they’d told her about leaving the flat, it seemed alright. The problem felt so small, especially when addressed through emails between shifts in Burundi.

Now her friends were scattered, her flat was gone, and the thought of spending any amount of time in her parent's quiet – albeit cheaper – suburbs drove her mad.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have money. But she had surgeon-sized student loans and her salary from MSF, although adequate, did not pay in London-sized sums. She knew she couldn't afford a decent place on her own. Harry was more than welcoming and his couch wasn't uncomfortable, but Hermione loathed to take his hospitality for much longer.

But she was barely searching. She felt as if she was still waiting to be sent off again – still stubbornly refusing to put down roots. That’s what the therapist would tell her.

It was that thought that turned Hermione back to her computer. She had closed out all the apartment hunting websites about an hour ago, but decided now to try an alternate, safer approach. She opened Facebook.

> _Hi everyone! Finally back in the city after a long holiday (aka boring recovery) with family. Feeling vastly improved and grateful to be back, thank you to everyone for the well wishes._
> 
> _Hoping to call London home again. If anyone knows of a good flatshare, preferably the West End (but I’m flexible!), please let me know._

Hermione pressed send and looked out the window again. The drizzling rain had started back up, and it was getting a little dark now. After a few minutes, her computer chimed. New message.

> _Hermione! Dear girl. SO glad to hear you’re back in fighting shape. Never pegged you as the daredevil but proud of your exploits nonetheless. I always tell my Year one Biochem students, eager as they are, before the first big exam, “Only one student has ever received an A on this one, and she’s cutting out gallbladders in some jungle battlefield!” Ha! Very proud._
> 
> _Oh! Almost forgot why I reached out. I have a flatmate for you. Lives on Baker Street, I believe, Marylebone District. I’ll introduce them to you at my birthday party this Saturday, October 6. So happy you’re finally in town for it this year._
> 
> _Best, Horace Slughorn M.D._

The number of times she had rolled her eyes at his message was cartoon-ish, but she appreciated her old teacher's message nonetheless. Even if it included entrapping her into attending one of his many, many parties. She had until now managed to avoid her old medical school professor’s extravagant get-togethers, but she’d shown her cards with the post.

The promise of a flatshare was exciting though, and lodging with a recommended acquaintance of a medical professor sounded a lot safer than a craigslist stranger. She made a mental note to search out Baker Street sometime before the party tomorrow. After responding with a thanks and confirmation of attendance, Hermione closed her laptop, and checked her phone. She had a text from Harry.

> _\- Hey Mione. Wrapped up early today. Case closed._
> 
> _\- Need to celebrate. Thai or Indian?_
> 
> _\- My treat._

Hermione smiled at the messages. After responding, ( _\- Another crook caught by London's finest. Thai! Obviously._ ) she packed her things, bundled up, and stepped out onto the rainy street.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione tugged down the hem of her cocktail dress with a huff. It had ridden halfway up her thighs on the ride to Slughorn’s home. It was getting cold outside, and her wardrobe suddenly felt very foolish. It was a very nice dress, though. Red and well-tailored to her. _'First impressions are important'_ , she thought. She paid the cabbie quickly and hurried to the door.

When Hermione let herself in, she was greeted by wall of heat and sound, coming from bodies sloppy with champagne and liquor. That’s not to say Slughorn's annual soiree was not a sophisticated affair. The party venue was all tall mahogany walls with arched ceilings and glimmering fixtures. It practically screamed old money. And it was currently stuffed end to end with a maze of mildly intoxicated but important looking strangers. Her old professor was exceedingly well-connected, she knew.

But there was a reason Hermione had actively avoided these events through the years. She did not know how to _be_ here. How to navigate this world that she managed to absent herself from for so long.

She actually recognized a few old classmates, but none she knew well. They all looked perfectly comfortable. What was their secret? Smile and nod and throw back as many free drinks as possible?

It helped that she was here with a purpose: find Slughorn, meet the potential flatmate, get back on track with life. Easy enough. With a newfound conviction she began to weave through the partygoers. 

Hermione craned her neck to peer over the crowd, but she couldn’t spot Slughorn anywhere. She did, however, notice a group of well-dressed men standing in a tight circle around a familiar figure. Hermione recognized him from his constant news appearances on parliamentary panels. Barty Crouch was one of those pompous, contrarian politicians that she so loathed.

He was talking loudly to the other men, espousing his views on a recent immigration law she had been reading about that morning. This piqued Hermione's interest, and she feigned appreciation of a nearby artwork while she eavesdropped.

As Crouch went on Hermione found herself glaring at the floral painting before her. When he offhandedly made a rude comment concerning refugees, she scoffed and turned to look openly at the group.

Her gaze passed over the men, all nodding in assent, until her eyes settled on a particularly handsome one. Gorgeous, in fact. And he was not nodding. Instead, he looked incredibly impassive. Until his gaze met her own.

She felt suddenly caught. He was staring at her very hard, very obviously. Why hadn't she looked away yet?

Perhaps this handsome stranger shared her feelings. She shot him a sly smile, as though to say ' _you don’t actually think this, do you?’_. Why she chose this awkward moment to attempt to flirt, she did not know.

She regretted it immediately. He seemed to scrutinize her appearance, looking her up and down rudely. She felt a deep shade of red takeover her face against her will. Then he spoke loudly, still staring.

"I quite agree with you, Barty."

His voice was even and rich. She felt ridiculous indignation, and furrowed her brow unconsciously. Despite his impassive gaze, she could have sworn she saw his lip tug up ever so slightly.

This all happened in a few short moments, but Hermione had the distinct feeling she had just been resoundingly dismissed. She didn’t embarrass easily. Years of being the class know-it-all had ensured that. But she _was_ slightly put-out. She had been caught eyeing some man on a first-name basis with that loathsome politician, then proceeded to try and flirt with him from afar. Really, what was she thinking? And why did he have to be so obviously rude to her?

Despite herself, she looked down at her dress, then felt silly. She didn't care what he thought of her. He was no one to her. Her dress was lovely, she knew it, she looked very nice tonight.

With shoulders squared, she walked away with the hope of finding Slughorn. She also had half a mind to challenge Mr. Crouch herself later. But before any of that, she definitely needed a drink.

* * *

She had just taken a sip of her champagne, with thoughts oscillating between politics and making a grocery list, when Slughorn found her.

"HERMIONE GRANGER!" A voice boomed from behind her. She turned around to greet the flushed face of her old professor. Several partygoers turned to look at the commotion, but she ignored the stares. She was used to her professor's flare for the dramatic.

"Professor Slughorn, it's great to see you, happy birthday!" she said, smiling. The champagne had helped.

"Oh, thank you, but for the last time, call me Horace! How are you dear?"

"I'm well. Really well."

She added some emphasis, hoping to avoid the subject doubtlessly on her old instructor's mind.

"That's good, I’m glad to hear it. When I’d heard the news about your… _terrible accident_ , I was absolutely sick with worry."

She grimaced, forced to recall the gunshot that sent her home. She held her glass tighter and became painfully aware of the ugly, jagged scar on her abdomen.

“Yes, well, I'm all better now” she said with forced cheer.

Slughorn looked at her sympathetically. She hated it.

“Poor dear. It's a good thing you're home though. There's so many good opportunities in London for you, excellent opportunities for advancement. In fact I know of chief of surgery at General that would be happy to speak with you."

Hermione tried to manage a smile. She should be grateful, even eager. Slughorn could probably get her a job easily. A good one, too. She wondered when the restless feeling she got at the thought of permanent employment would go away.

She was about to change the subject when she felt the sensation of being watched. She glanced over Slughorn's shoulder. Him again. Slughorn followed her gaze.

"Oh Hermione, have you already met Tom? Blast it, I was quite eager to make the introduction myself!" he chastised goodnaturedly.

Hermione looked from Slughorn to this man, now named Tom.

Tom strode forward, stopping next to Slughorn. He was still staring at Hermione. He extended a hand.

"Not officially," he said smoothly, his face was polite but there was obvious enjoyment in his eyes. They were dark, like his hair, almost black. Hermione took his hand, and noticed the calluses on his fingers.

"It's nice to meet you, Tom..."

"Riddle. Horace and I are old friends."

"I see."

He did not look much older than herself. She glanced back at Slughorn. He had told this man about her? Then it dawned on her. Slughorn had wanted to make their introduction.

"Oh! Are you the one looking for a flatmate?” she asked, knowing the answer.

Tom smiled back, there was a tightness around his lips, and he released her hand.

“That’s correct. A room and bath. Quite spacious. Tell me, Ms. Granger, do you agree with what Barty Crouch was saying?”

“That sounds nice– I’m sorry?” she finished quickly. But she knew exactly what he was asking. Now it was Slughorn's turn to seriously look between them. Hermione eyed him, unsure of how to respond politely.

“You were listening in on our conversation, weren’t you?" he supplied, still looking dashingly polite. "I’m wondering what your opinion is. I think I can guess.”

He smiled at her. It was a breathtaking sight, but his words sounded like a challenge. She was oddly up for it. His confrontational bluntness broke her nerves like a fever.

“That's right, I was. I only hesitate because you seemed to agree with him. I wouldn't want to offend.” she said quickly, before adding lightly, "I wouldn't want to start a row with a potential flatmate."

He looked oddly pleased. Hermione hated how this apparent approval made her feel.

“He’s the Home Secretary. Don’t you think his opinion is trustworthy, more experienced?” Tom asked, giving her a pointed look.

Oh, he was definitely challenging her.

“His experience does not make his beliefs any more moral,” she said resolutely. She lifted her chin to better meet his gaze. He was tall, but something about his presence made his stature seem much larger than it really was.

“You think that a man’s politics should be principally based on morality?”

He cocked his head, obviously curious. She was about to respond when Slughorn interrupted her.

“I knew it was a perfect match! You two will have a great deal to talk about. Which reminds me, I still have to go greet Mr. Crouch," he said, tactfully ignoring the actual discussion of Crouch. He turned to Hermione.

"I told Tom you wouldn’t mind a co-ed flatshare, what with Ron and Harry. But neither were so handsome, were they?”

He winked at her goodnaturedly, and she inwardly cringed. It was true she was not bothered by living with a man, but she was bothered by living with an apparently rude one.

She turned back to Tom, he was smiling at Slughorn, but there was that faint tightness in his expression again.

Slughorn excused himself from the conversation, but not before sharing with Tom a quick note about a minister's impending nuptials. She took the time to give her potential flatmate another once-over. Without ogling at him this time, of course.

He appeared to be all politeness, listening intently. His hands gripped his glass and she noticed that his short cut nails were immaculate. A good sign. She saw that there was no obvious dog hair on his ankles. She'd never been a dog person.

She didn’t know how long she’d been staring at his ankles, or when Slughorn had walked away, but she must have stared for a second too long. Hermione was becoming far too familiar with the sensation on Tom’s dark eyes on her

“What have you deduced about me?” he asked.

He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was a hint of something like amusement in his expression.

“What?” she replied dimly. She was typically very good with questions, but his seemed impossible to anticipate.

“Deduction, it is–"

“I know what it is,” she snapped.

He stopped and looked at her with an odd look.

“So?”

She paused, but only for a moment.

“Only that you’re a clean flatmate, I think. You don’t have pets… and I think you may be a musician. What is it that you do for a living?”

The question came to her abruptly. She knew so little about this man. There was a pause where he nodded at her but did not look terribly impressed.

“Business." he said dismissively. "I travel quite a bit for work and your room is on the third floor, above the rest of the flat, so we should be quite out of each other’s way. There's already a bed. I trust it will be a vast improvement on your friend's fold-out. Do you mind pets? I see you don't have any, that's good. You're right that I don't allow fur to invade my home, however my landlord below has quite a menagerie.”

"I… I see, that sounds good. Um– No, no I don't mind pets."

She had begun to feel like this was more of an interview than a decent conversation. It was an interview that she was ill-prepared for, and one in which the inquiring party seemed to already know everything about her.

She was scrambling to think of a question to level at him, to gain some foothold of understanding. But he continued his barrage of enquiries as though from a memorized list.

"Do you mind the violin? I play it often."

"Not a bit. I love music. I used to play the piano, actually," she said, trying to steer him in a more conversational direction. He didn't take the bait.

“Do you have any food allergies I should be aware of?” he asked.

“I… no, not at all” she spluttered. What was he going to do, cook for her?

“Oh, but I do have asthma. Although I haven’t had an attack since I was a girl..." she added, offering one last attempt at a proper discussion. But her voice trailed off. Tom nodded in comprehension but looked wholly uninterested.

He suddenly seemed distracted by something over Hermione's shoulder.

"I have an important introduction to make, but I believe that we will pair nicely as flatmates. If you'll excuse me..."

He threw her a smile, making to leave.

Hermione felt rushed and flustered. Their introduction was very unfinished and, she felt, rather one-sided. She had several more things she wanted to say, but it appeared that Tom had gotten all that he needed out of her.

"Wait!" she called a bit too loudly.

There was a flash of annoyance on his face when he looked back at her over his shoulder. However, when he turned around fully, his expression was polite.

"Yes?" he asked briskly.

"We haven't discussed cost. I don't know if I can afford Baker Street. And I need the exact address."

He gave her another once-over, just like when she first spotted him. At the time she thought he was assessing her looks. ' _Deducations_ ,' she now thought to herself.

"I'm confident it is within your means… so long as you become employed in the coming weeks. It's very reasonable. I have a deal with the landlord."

He left her with a genial nod, then exited quickly towards an important looking woman. He was wearing that dazzling smile again. Hermione wondered if she had flushed at it as deeply as this woman did now. She did not bother pressing for the address. This had been a bad idea.

Hermione felt like the trip here had been a waste and, after finishing off her champagne, moved through the crowd to retrieve her coat. She had got what she came for and saw no reason to stay now.

The night air was noticeably colder than before when she stepped out. The wind ruffled her hair and she breathed deeply, and sighed. It felt like a relief getting out of the stuffy interior. She was thinking about where best to find a taxi, when her phone chimed. 

> __\- Address is 221B Baker Street. Be there between 8:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m. TR__

She stared at the text, thinking about another week on Harry's fold-out. She decided she could disregard first impressions, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poppyhall: Introductions are hard. Especially those with witty conversation between characters with more wit than you. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. They will get longer, I promise. Editing makes me sleepy but I'm excited to get to the real plot of this. All feedback is appreciated. Thoughts on initial characterizations? I want to do Hermione justice. And Tom's a tough one too, especially put in a Sherlock Holmes-type mold. They're so different! Also, since it will be in the next chapter, I want to add that I was forever converted to Harry/Cedric by frozenbeans, author of my favorite tomione work Renatus. It's incredible, and inspired me to try writing this au idea. I can't recommend it enough.
> 
> DreamingOfAndromeda: ^^^ What she said. This has been a super fun project to work on so far and I hope you guys like it! I love seeing how other people interpret characters, so maybe this story can add some cool new dimensions to how you see Tom and Hermione. I 100% blame Poppyhall for getting me into Tomione (she is a life ruiner in the best way possible).


	3. Chapter 3

****Hermione was starting to regret bringing Harry along.

“Are we talking about the same Tom Riddle? I cannot believe this!”

Harry had been laughing to himself since she mentioned Tom’s name. His reaction was unexpected, to say the least.

"I refuse to believe Riddle is your flatmate," he said, smiling and shaking his head.

Hermione huffed and picked up her pace, matching Harry’s longer strides.

"Potential flatmate!” she emphasized. “But what does he have to do with the department?"

Harry ignored her, too caught up in the absurdity. It had seemed like quite a bizarre connection at first, Harry and Tom knowing each other through some type of work. But on the other hand, Hermione thought, London felt terribly small lately.

"You'll go mad around him Hermione, I swear,” Harry said. He shook his head again.

"Harry," she said, her tone warning.

Harry lifted his hands in mock defense.

"I have no idea what he really does,” Harry conceded, “But he’s Moody’s go-to man on tougher cases… the strange ones.”

Hermione pressed for more. Her Google search on Tom had been agonizingly bare. Had he lied about his job? Perhaps that was understandable. A career in helping solve deaths too strange for the police wasn’t exactly polite party conversation.

“He told me he was a business consultant."

"He's a prat is what he is” Harry said without hesitation. “Struts around my crime scenes like he owns the place, giving my team orders."

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at Harry’s easy anger. He’d always been rather competitive. She pressed on anyway. It irked her how little she knew about Tom. She couldn’t live with a stranger, no matter how good the rent was.

"So, is he good?"

"What?"

"On the cases, I mean, is he any help?” Hermione tried to sound casual despite her burning curiosity. The more she thought about it, the more fascinating his work sounded: _a crime consultant._

"Ah, yeah, that's the worst part," Harry smiled ruefully, "He's bloody brilliant."

His tone was earnest, and Hermione believed him. Suddenly Harry stopped walking and nodded at a door.

"This is it then, right?"

Hermione was surprised when she saw they had reached Baker Street, right in front of 221. The street was more posh than she had expected. What was the catch?

_“Tom,”_ she thought to herself.

The loud chime of the doorbell was greeted by a great crash and a thundering of heavy footsteps and barks approaching the door. Both of the visitors immediately took a step back, and Hermione noticed Harry’s hand flinch towards his waist on instinct.

The large black door swung open to reveal one of the largest men Hermione had ever seen. His frame seemed to swallow the whole of the entryway, and his face was slightly obscured by a bushy black beard and wild hair. Hermione had half a heart to run back the way she came. Had she been given the wrong address? Tom didn’t seem the type to make mistakes like that.

“‘Ello there. What can I do for you?” The man asked, his voice booming and whiskers bristling as he spoke. He had a thick accent, but his voice was deep and kind. She was surprised, but then Hermione noticed a few things she had missed at first glance.

This man was sporting a faded floral apron and matching oven mitts over his large hands. There was an iguana cradled in one of his arms, and a hulking mastiff at his side, saliva dribbling from his jowls. Hermione had always been more of a cat person.

A dark haired corgi appeared also, and began running circles around his gargantuan feet. Tom did mention his landlord having pets. She had the right address. She smiled.

“I’m Hermione Granger and this is my friend Harry,” she replied, and Harry shook the man's hand. “Tom should have told you I’m coming by. I’m here about the flatshare.”

“Oh! ‘O course you are,” the landlord said smiling, ushering them in. “Tom did say something 'bout yeh. The name’s Rubeus Hagrid, call me Hagrid though. I own the buildin'.”

He said this as he guided them through the foyer. When Hermione and Harry stepped in amid the circling dogs, they were met with the thick scent of smoke.

“Sorry, is something burning?” Harry asked, craning his head in an attempt to peer around Hagrid’s barrel chest.

“Aye, that’d be the rock cakes,” Hagrid replied dejectedly, before motioning to the mastiff, “Ruddy oaf- tha's Fang - he was chasin' poor Norbert 'round again.”

Hagrid gave the iguana on his shoulder a reassuring stroke.

“Knocked over me whole tea table, he did! Had ter chase Fang down an' next thing I knew the cakes were up in smoke.”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry, who was petting the excited corgi.

“Tom don' tell me too much. Now is it both o' yeh takin' the room?”

Hagrid looked between them. Harry was the first to laugh.

“We’re just friends. I just came along.”

“It’s only me.” Hermione said with a nod. “I've just got home to London from working abroad. I’m a trauma surgeon.”

Hagrid looked impressed, and Hermione couldn’t help feeling a small swell of pride. She would never admit it, but she enjoyed how people so clearly viewed her in a new light once they knew her career.

“Is that so? Well I’m happy to have yeh here. Last tenant was real shifty-like. Didn’ care for him. Glad to see Tom’s got better company.”

Harry gave Hermione a pointed look, but she ignored it.

“Tom told me you have quite a few animals,” Hermione said, changing the subject.

Hagrid nodded, clearly pleased.

“I take em’ in from the shelter when I can. They’re usually on their way in a few weeks once they find a good home, but these fellers have stuck ‘round.”

Hermione crouched down to pet the doleful looking mastiff.

“I've had Norbert here since he was a hatchlin'. This mangy mutt is Fang,” He motioned to the mastiff. “An' this fella’s Fluffy.”

The corgi yipped and began circling Hagrid's feet. Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the scene. She thought she quite liked Hagrid.

“So I’m guessing you are 221A,” Harry said, standing from petting the dogs.

“Oh, yes, righ',” he said flustered, “That’s me.”

He motioned up to another up a narrow set of stairs.

“That’s you upstairs, B. You just see yourself up. Haven' heard from Tom today, but he should be here. If not give me a holler an' I'll let you two in."

“Thank you, Hagrid. It was a pleasure to meet you,” Hermione said, heading for the stairs. She felt she had made a good impression on the landlord. He left them with an invitation for tea after the tour and went off to his flat, dogs trailing behind him.

Hermione furrowed her brows at the shut door upstairs. She’d come at the time Tom had given her, and surely anyone in the upstairs flat would have heard the commotion they made. Had he forgotten? Changed his mind? Harry started up the stairs first.

“I like him,” Harry whispered down at her as they ascended. “I’d feel safe anywhere with a man like that as a landlord."

Hermione stifled a laugh.

"Imagine telling him you'll be late on the rent."

Harry shuddered.

"Good point," he replied.

They came to a landing and she knocked quickly. Nothing. Another knock. Nothing. In a moment of frustration, and forgetting she was with a man of the law, Hermione jiggled the handle of the door, and was surprised when it swung open invitingly.

“Hello?” Hermione called out, poking her head in through the threshold.

Harry strode forward into the apartment without a second thought, hands in his pockets as his eyes scanned the room.

“Harry!” she hissed, “What are you doing? This isn't our home!”

“Oh, c’mon ‘Mione,” he said, “Riddle asked you over here. What more invitation do you need? And besides, I want to see how the man lives. Someone started a rumor at the station that he sleeps in a coffin.”

Hermione groaned.

“I have a feeling I know who the culprit was," she said as she followed him in.

Harry smirked. They stood together in the large, bright room and took it in. It was a living space. The wood floors were dark and scuffed, giving the whole place a well-lived in feeling.

The walls were a dark green, but the room was lit up by the large windows that lined the opposing wall. A slew of mismatched frames peppered the walls, filled with bizarre old paintings and strange maps, and more than a few awards. Hermione saw Harry pull an ancient looking tome from the floor to ceiling bookshelf along one of the walls

“Put that down,” she snapped, rushing to take the book from his hands. “It looks priceless.”

She slid it back into place on the shelf and noticed that all of the books looked weathered and well-loved. The spines were cracked and the yellow pages dog-eared. She smiled despite herself, taking a small amount of happiness from the fact that Tom seemed an enthusiastic reader.

“And do you reckon this rug is too nice for me tread on?” Harry asked sarcastically, strolling over to the sitting area decorated with an ornate Persian rug. It was large, intricately woven, and definitely expensive.

“Probably,” Hermione said.

“Oh wow,” she suddenly breathed in awe at the large brass telescope by the wall of windows. On the perch of the window sat a violin, and few other small instruments Hermione didn't know the name of.

Tom had a myriad of wonders simply lying around his flat. There was a phonograph and records spanning decades. There was a shelf among the books dedicated entirely to an assortment of orbs that Hermione could think of no purpose for, along with a small collection of animal skulls and horns. One of the skulls was definitely human, and Hermione decidedly assumed, fake.

This was the cluttered home of a collector, someone who prized trophies and the conquests of travel. But it was an organized chaos, everything had its place and was impeccably kept. There were no layers of dust or cracks in the leather furniture. 

The place felt oddly familiar to her. Perhaps it was the scent of old books and furniture polish, reminding her of a university library. There were secondary notes, too. A heady, woody scent and something spicy, like cinnamon, but much less sweet. It was masculine and just a little intoxicating.

There was a kitchen off of the main living room. The counters were very clean, and the appliances looked new. It appeared that the owner had made additions, the stainless steel center island and the enormous kitchen sink looked more like those of a lab than an eating space. In the large sink lay a number of test tubes and other chemistry glassware. The counters were relatively empty, save for a few mugs and specimen jars. On the metal island in the center of the kitchen there was a microscope. Hermione recognized the model from medical school and widened her eyes in shock at what its retail price must be. She felt odd about looking through the cabinets, so she turned back into the living room. Tom had said her room was on an upper floor.

Harry had just delved into the large flat chest that served as a coffee table, and was pulling out some antiquated weapons. He held up a musket.

“Do you think he’s got papers for this?"

Hermione was about to protest when she heard a creak in the floor directly behind her.

“Be careful, I can’t recall if those are still loaded,” a silky, familiar voice said over her shoulder. Both Harry and Hermione jumped comically.

She spun around and locked eyes with Tom Riddle. He had on a smoking jacket that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. A new light poured out of the kitchen. How had she missed that door? The man wore an easy grin on his face, which was now smiling down at her.

“Riddle,” Harry said stiffly, standing up and squaring his shoulders.

Tom briefly glanced up from Hermione to look across the room at Harry. He looked completely unsurprised at Harry's presence.

“Potter.”

“The door was unlocked,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m so sorry we barged in. I would never have let myself in, but Hagrid said you were here, so…”

She trailed off. She hated how very much like a caught school-girl she felt under his gaze. It was like she was 12 again, getting reprimanded with Harry and Ron.

“Good to know you don’t have a habit of B and E,” Riddle said dryly, but there was no bite to his words.

He once again dragged his piercing gaze away from Hermione to look at her companion.

"So, it was Potter's fold-out you've been on? I love coincidences.”

But Hermione had a feeling he, like her, did not believe in such things.

“Have you had a sufficient look around?” Tom continued. "I know you've long wished to raid my home, Potter."

"I still think you withheld that pink suit-" Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

“Yes, mostly.” Hermione nodded, “I haven’t looked for the upstairs room, though.”

Over Tom's shoulder she saw the cracked door that clearly lead to his room. There wasn't enough of a view to confirm the coffin. Tom looked as if he had barely heard what she said, and grimaced to himself.

“Hagrid’s been baking again," he said distractedly.

“The rock cakes.” she supplied.

“A rather common occurrence, I’m afraid."

Tom stepped past her and motioned for her to follow. They arrived at a door on the other side of the living room. 

”He didn't try to make you hold Norbit, did he?”

"No, thank goodness," Hermione forced a laugh.

Tom opened up the door to reveal a flight of stairs that led to the third level of the flat. Hermione inched past him to enter the narrow stairway and began to ascend. Tom did not follow. Distantly, she heard Harry's phone ring from the living room, followed swiftly by the slam of the front door. Harry’s muffled voice receded as he went down and she journeyed up.

Reaching a landing, Hermione saw that there were two doors. The first one was open, leading into a small, nondescript bathroom. She was more curious about the second.

Stepping through the threshold, Hermione immediately liked the room. The freshly painted walls were a nice, soft blue. The floors looked a shade lighter than those downstairs, and they were similarly glowing under the light that streamed in from two good-sized windows. She looked out of one and saw that Harry was below, pacing the street with his phone to his ear.

_“Work,”_ she thought.

She turned back. The room was bare save for a cheap metal bed frame and a surprisingly nice mahogany wardrobe. She hoped it came with the room.

The place was perfect for her, she knew. The location was excellent. And she called to mind Slughorn’s email from this morning. He’d connected her, without her permission, with a short-staffed emergency clinic. It was a ten minute walk from Baker Street. A sweet room and the perfect location, in exchange for an eccentric flatmate of varying friendliness? It felt fair.

She ventured into the bathroom now. When she turned on the light, she was greeted by a sight that made her shriek and stumble back, falling painfully onto the landing.

Tom was beside her at a surprising speed, eyes flashing from her to the direction of her horror. He darted into the bathroom, but then let out a laugh and quickly reappeared. His expression was completely at ease now.

“That’s just Nagini.” he said warmly, as if introducing a harmless old friend, and not a sizeable python.

Hermione gaped at him.

“That’s yours? You said you didn’t have pets!”

Hermione was suddenly aware of her position on the floor and stood up, recovering herself.

“I said I didn’t allow fur. Reptiles, fortunately, have none.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. A reptile enthusiast, of course.

Stepping closer to Tom, she peered once more into the bathroom. The white tile, porcelain tub and shower head were as clean and pristine as the rest of the flat. But the thick, winding body of a serpent was coiled in the basin, scales glistening under the light. The snake could easily be as long as Hermione, but she didn’t dare get close enough to find out.

“Nagini loves that tub, I’m not sure why, what with all the stairs it requires. But you’re of course welcome to use mine any time this one is occupied.”

Tom backed away then, walking into the blue room and peering out the window. He beckoned over his shoulder for her to join him. Marching over, she was about to retort that any rental agreement she signs would include a python-free bathing area, but he interrupted her. He seemed to do that a lot.

“I have reason to believe that your chaperone is in desperate need of my help. How do you feel about morgues? I think it will be interesting.”

“Harry? Did he say something?” she moved next to Tom to glance out the window at Harry. He was running his hands through his hair a lot. She could read him easily. Tom could too, apparently.

“It’s a work call. Filling him in on a new case. It’s an odd one, grizzly, in fact, if I’m right about his breathing patterns."

Tom’s expression looked almost hungry, his dark eyes were lit up with interest. Hermione wondered if Tom had stepped closer to her. It felt like it. He and his apartment smelled the same. She faintly wondered which one inherited it from the other.

“He’s running out of questions to ask.” Tom was speaking softly, his breath fogging up the glass slightly. "He’s realizing he’ll need my help. I feel that having a medical professional there – one for the living – could be interesting. And that perhaps you will find it as such."

He paused and they both watched out the window.

"There’s more than one body.”

Hermione swallowed.

“How do you know it’s more than one?”

Hermione hadn't looked away from Harry, but she could feel Tom’s eyes on her now.

“You look terribly intrigued.”

She turned to him them. He felt very close, and he appeared to be scrutinizing her. Was she really going to go to a morgue, to witness the aftermath of some gruesome fate? It worried her that she already knew her answer.

“I suppose I could come.” She looked up at him, trying to look uninterested by the prospect. "I don't have my spare key.”

Harry was making to reenter the flat now, and Tom was suddenly gone from her side and bounding down the stairs. He called up to her.

“We'll get you a copy afterwards.”

Hermione had meant her key to Harry’s apartment, but after taking one last look around the blue room, she thought that perhaps Tom's was an alright idea.

* * *

Tom had been correct. Harry had returned to the flat in an agitated mood, asking Tom briskly to come with him to the lab. He consented that Hermione could come along as well, they would be heading to St. Mungos, where she was familiar.

They departed in a taxi and detoured to the waterfront where the bodies were pulled from, Tom insisted on it, saying something about debris. There was no room for negotiation with him, but Hermione supposed this could be useful should Hagrid try to implement any rent hikes.

In the cab they were filled in on the gory details. There was indeed more than one body. Four, in fact. Tied together. No crime scene. The were pulled out of the Thames just an hour ago.

She began to see what Harry had explained about Tom, as he interrogated Harry with a barrage of questions about what he knew, as though Harry was his reporting officer. He made no comment on any of Harry’s information, but simply nodded or made noises of annoyance when a reply was dissatisfying.

In a little while, on a small police boat bobbing on the Thames, Hermione saw more truth to Harry’s words – Tom was indeed brilliant. And an absolute terror at crime scenes. No one seemed to appreciate his presence, and Harry looked to be the only one able to tolerate communicating with him. This Tom was a far cry from the man with the dashing smiles at Slughorn’s party. But despite his curt manners, he departed from the scene having given the officers the approximate site the bodies were dumped based on the sediment in puddles of water where the bodies had lay.

Hermione just tried to stay out of the way, but Tom seemed to insist on her continual consultation. If there had been bodies there, perhaps she could have been some help. She knew nothing about sediment. Harry kept giving her odd looks.

“I suppose this is a life with Riddle. One minute you're touring a flat and the next you’re in a crime scene.”

“I’m not starting a life with Riddle, Harry. Even if I moved in, I doubt we'd be having Tuesday brunch or movie nights.”

The fact was that their old trio used to cling tightly so these kinds of traditions as flatmates.

“But are you moving in, do you think?”

"So eager to be rid of me? I think I'm a rather excellent tenant. Anyways, Hedwig would miss me."

Harry smirked, but then proceeded to look to her, waiting for a real answer. Now Hermione paused. She knew her decision, but it still nagged her. She had little qualms about living with the opposite sex. She was quite comfortable with the arrangement, especially after so many years with Ron and Harry. Then with MSF, she was more than adaptable. But there was something about Tom’s presence that seemed to unnerve her at times.

He was certainly handsome, Hermione was not too proud or oblivious to acknowledge that. Gorgeous, in fact. But not in some radiant, angelic way of other handsome men. Those words would not fit him. His presence was cold and towering, and his good looks could be cruel and harsh. She wondered if that was the uncertain feeling she got when she was around him –  attraction. She was attracted to him, she wasn’t too draft to admit that either. But there was no desire behind it, she found. None at all.

There was something else, when she sorted away her admiration for his appearance, not to mention his mind. Perhaps it was his oddness. He was definitely odd. Unsettling? Perhaps. Then she found her word. A label for her feeling.

Intrigued. Tom was intriguing. How long had it been since she felt this – challenged, excited, curious? His world felt far richer than her own, and now she had an opportunity to enter it.

“Yes.” she said finally.

Harry just smirked again. She found little doubt in her choice. Her new flatmate was walking over, hands in his coat, looking pleased with himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poppyhall: Interior design is DreamingOfAndromeda's secret side hustle. Next chapter will be here much sooner and with much more Cedric, who we couldn't find room for here because we couldn't stop writing about rooms. Who can blame us.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic depictions of injuries.

Tom was out of the car before it reached a full stop.

They're arrival at St. Mungos was greeted with rolling grey skies and the beginnings of rain. Hermione and Harry were quick to follow Tom into the sterile interior of the old building. Hermione found she still recalled the way to the lab and morgue.

Tom stopped short at the stair’s entrance, but motioned them ahead. He had to take a call. His phone had rung repeatedly - and had been repeatedly silenced - throughout their cab ride.

As she and Harry descended to the basement, Hermione reflected on her present situation. She had just learned the details of four drowned corpses. And yet, she was filled with an odd, thrilled sort of anticipation. She was no stranger to death, but shouldn’t she still feel something deeper about this? Or at least, something besides burning excitement?

Harry suddenly stopped her in front of the lab's double doors.

"Sorry, Hermione, are you sure you want to be here?"

He seemed to sense her unease, but failed to guess her true thoughts. Which was good, she thought, she felt a little ashamed at her unabashed eagerness.

"I’m really alright Harry,” she said. “I've always been interested in forensics, besides. Trust me, I'm completely comfortable."

Harry looked doubtful, and she rolled her eyes. Harry had always played the role of the protector. The de facto hero of the group. To be fair, though, he was good at the job.

“Really, Harry, I guarantee in the past ten odd years I've seen more blood than you.”

"Yeah, Hermione, but this isn't like that. This is… this is murder. Dead bodies, not patients."

“I've seen a lot of that too,” she said after a pause, a little quieter.

It was a gentle reminder to him that she had worked in war-zones. Death hadn’t been a daily occurrence, not at all, but there had been times where a dozen bodies were rushed in by fellow soldiers, some on the cusp of death and others already there. For Hermione, the shock of cadavers had been dulled in medical school, and nearly stamped out on her assignments.

Tom suddenly rushed down the stairs. He barely spared the two a questioning glance before rushing between them and through the double doors. They followed.

The room was huge, with harsh lights and polished floors. It smelled like chemicals. A single man was working over a cadaver across the room, too immersed in his work to notice their arrival. He was tall and, Hermione noticed immediately, exceedingly handsome. He looked to be weighing some organ next to the body of its owner, when Harry called across the room.

“Cedric!"

The man looked up and, upon recognition, beamed. His handsome features, chestnut honey hair and thousand kilowatt smile, Hermione thought, could not look more out of place in this sterile, lifeless basement laboratory.

“Harry! Hi!” he said happily, holding up one gloved hand. It had some blood on it, but he didn’t seem to notice. Really, the man looked positively elated, given his current task.

“You busy with something?” Harry asked as he walked over, eyeing the body on the sheet.

“Nothing that I can’t heartlessly abandon,” Cedric said with a wink, still smiling as he began to put away some tools.

When the man looked up again he glanced at Tom and Hermione with some surprise. Apparently he had not noticed them.

“Tom, good to see you again,” Cedric said. Tom gave him a polite smile and nod.

“And…” Cedric’s eyes strayed to Hermione.

“Hermione, it’s nice to meet you,” she quickly stopped herself from offering her hand, glancing at the bloodied gloves.

Realization dawned on Cedric’s face.

“Hermione Granger! Yes, Harry’s told me so much about you.”

“Come round here often Harry?” Hermione laughed.

Harry managed to look harassed.

"Not if he can help it," Cedric laughed goodnaturedly. “I assume you’re here about the three bodies.”

“Yes,” Tom spoke up now. "We need the lab.”

“If that’s alright,” Harry added quickly, emphasizing a more obliging tone. "They said you were short-staffed. We’re hoping to get the report in before Monday."

“Yes of course,” Cedric nodded. He sounded much more solemn, “They were brought in a little while ago. It’s not pretty.”

He glanced at Hermione, but Harry made a nodding motion and Cedric began to set up. In fluid motions, Cedric covered and returned the body to its cold metal locker. He stored and labeled materials, and stripped his soiled gloves off into the biohazard waste bin.

“So, Cedric” Harry said casually as they waited, “missed any good stiffs since the last time I came to visit?”

“Pardon?” Cedric turned towards them.

Hermione heard Tom sigh with impatience.

“I've been caught up with fraud cases lately. Anything interesting since last time?” Harry clarified.

“I suppose,” Cedric said, clearing his throat. "The one I just stored is that MP. I bet you heard about it on the news.”

Harry made a sound of understanding. Hermione surprised herself when she spoke up.

"The one who died in his car?" Hermione remembered reading about it. But that story had been nearly a week ago, she thought. “So they suspect foul play?"

Cedric looked up from some paperwork.

"You _are_ quick," Cedric said, smiling and glancing at Harry.

"Can we please see the bodies," Tom interrupted, sounding polite but obviously uninterested.

Cedric smoothly pulled out and lined up the bodies in question, all the while chatting casually. He and Harry both thought that Liverpool's recent trade was rubbish, and Cedric's mum was doing much better now, thanks for asking.

Before Cedric was entirely ready, Tom had already taken his place looming over the man's shoulder – a dark, and evidently impatient shadow.

“You might want this,” said Cedric, holding out a small blue container he'd fished out from his coat.

Harry took some of the white substance inside and placed it below his nose, then offered it to her. She quickly understood. The dead tend to smell. Her eyes teared slightly at the intense scent of eucalyptus and menthol. Hermione moved to give the jar to Tom.

“All right then,” said Cedric, “let’s get started, shall we?”

Harry has pulled out his phone and listed off what was known about the bodies as they opened each bag. They heard the list in the cab, but now they saw the faces to match, as Cedric unzipped them in turn.

The first body was a man, the only one with a positive ID. Crow was his last name. He had a long record and a sister serving fifty to life in Ireland. The second was another male, unidentified, somewhere in his thirties or forties. The last is a body was no older than a teenager.

Hermione noted that Cedric had not protested to her presence. She tried her best to look like she'd done this before. Up until now Hermione had done a prize job of avoiding eye contact with the bodies, but it was inevitable. Steadying her nerves, she approached the first slab.

It was easy for her to view them in a medical way – detached, all hard facts and emotionless evidence, but a clinical perspective couldn't stop her from feeling uneasy still. Despite the Vapo Rub, the aggressive scent of decay and brine managed to get into Hermione’s head. She felt Tom staring at her. And noticed a worried glance from Harry, too. She steadied her gaze, and took careful mental notes.

"I've got overtime today to rush these three and the MP. I’ve only done the preliminary stuff with them. I can only do so much without help.”

He sounded apologetic. The bodies had clearly been dried off and cleaned, but remained bloated and slightly purple from the time in the water. Labeled samples of sediment lay nearby, which Tom was apparently very interested in. He took them over to the microscope. Harry looked up from his phone.

“No one else is here?”

Cedric shrugged and shook his head.

“It's a Sunday. I called in for an assistant but I haven’t heard back.”

Hermione knew she and Harry were thinking the same thing, but he spoke first.  
“Unfortunately, Hermione is just here to observe. I don’t think she-”

“No Harry it’s fine, I’m happy to help if you'd like Cedric.”

Soon enough Hermione donned latex gloves and an apron, with her unruly hair tied out of the way. 

"I’d say they couldn’t have been in the water for more than two days, three at most,” Cedric said.

"Three, " Tom called without looking up. He deduced it based off of the weather in Reading the previous two days. "If you don't believe me check the temperatures of the livers."

Cedric seemed unsurprised by the interruption, and simply assented, saying he'd check the livers 'just to be very sure.' Harry had started taking notes, and Hermione began to inspect each of the bodies in turn.

She wasn't quite sure what she was doing, to be completely honest. She was sure there were special procedures here that she had never learned, or at least never committed to memory. But a body is a body.

Cedric went about filling out his own documents for each body while he spoke with Harry. When Tom finally strided over, he dictated findings on the sediments that would confirm the dumping site of the bodies. Harry continued to alternate between scribbling notes and typing on his phone.

Tom began to pour over the bodies one by one, on his own accord. He had a small magnifying tool, and moved slowly up and down the bodies. His lips moved wordlessly, almost imperceptibly. Hermione hadn't realized she'd stopped her own work to observe him,until his dark gaze flickered up to hers.

“Doctor Granger?” he said.

"Oh– yes?"

Tom suddenly stood close beside her. He smelled like his flat, she noticed, despite the eucalyptus and menthol.

“Tell me what you see,” he said, calmly.

She cleared her throat, and concisely explained her findings.

“Clearly, there are contusions and lacerations on all of the victims wrists and ankles,” she said, pointing."Harry mentioned they were found bound together with netting, but it looks like there was also some kind of cording."

"And, sorry," Hermione swiped the magnifying tool from Tom's hand, too immersed to bother with his reaction. "It looks like there are fibers in the wounds. Like plastic bits. That would be it."

Tom hummed in affirmation behind her. Harry took notes and said something about samples. Cedric was busy with paperwork, saying specifics came later.

"I think… they were bound together prior to death. At least the two adults were.” Hermione said.

"Why," Tom prompted.

"Well their lacerations are very deep, and spread out in this way like looks as though they… struggled, quite a bit. The boy has obviously been dead much longer. And his lacerations aren't as severe."

Hermione held back an involuntary shiver when Tom hummed in agreement. The sound was low, and too close to her ear. She took a focused breath and moved away, circling the table to assess the first man, Crow. Tom had already looked him over, but seemed interested in her observations.

Hermione pulled back the eyelids. The orbital bones were shattered. She noted evidence in the trachea indicating the man was at least partially conscious when the trauma occurred. Hermione knew not to dwell on that detail for too long, but simply noted it to Harry.

She moved to the second man. Unidentified. The man's nose was badly fractured. Hermione noticed a sag to the man's jaw and she reached out to maneuver the mandible. It was flexible beneath her fingers, like the joints were connected by rubber. Hermione could tell that Tom was watching her every move. Turning the man's head in her hands, Hermione noticed a small amount of black fluid seeping out of the man's ear.

“Basal cranial fracture,” Hermione said. Cedric came up and nodded, making more notes.

The last body was more difficult to handle. The boy was small, he was probably somewhere in his teens. Aside from an assortment of abrasions, the boy had been spared any nasty injuries. He was significantly more decomposed than the other bodies, but his head laid at a peculiar angle and the swelling and bruising around his neck made the cause of death clear.

"Something snapped his neck. He died quick," Hermione said.  
Tom was back to observing her. She felt very much like a medical student again.

"Rather different from the harsh treatment the others received. Why do you think?"

"I have no idea."

"Come now, Granger," Tom looked at her, searchingly. "Imagine you are this boy's killer. Supposing this is the work of one man, you nearly tortured those two. What makes this boy different?"

Hermione felt the wrongness of the question, but thought about it.

“Well they were killed later, we think, so there's that. And I suppose he's much younger than the others. Perhaps... could it be mercy towards children?” she said.

Tom gave her the smallest of smiles and a shrug. His phone rang again, and his expression soured.

“I’m ready to give a statement to the department whenever you’re ready, Detective Inspector," Tom called across the tables. Harry looked up from his notes.

"And if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like the station to call Dublin for the records on Colin Creevy before we get there.”

"Colin Creevy?" Harry's hand didn't move on his notepad.

"I believe that this case is connected to a missing person's case in Dublin a few months ago."

"I haven't heard of it."

"You wouldn't have Potter, I think, it was only in the papers," Tom said dryly, "It was in August, a boy-"

"He disappeared from a school party," Hermione piped up. All heads turned to her. "I was visiting Ron when it happened, now that you've said the name I remember it. I suppose he looks a little like the picture but given the decomposition," she shrugged.

"That's exactly right," Tom said. Hermione tried not to glow with approval. Ever the star student, she thought bitterly.

"I'll look into it," Harry nodded, typing something out on his phone.

Soon enough, Harry and Tom hurried off for the station. Harry promised Cedric to send along any new information they get on the bodies, as well as a pint for his help. Cedric accepted with a wide smile, combing a large hand through his golden brown hair.

"Now Dr. Granger," Cedric said, turning to her as the two men left. "Let's get to work."

Cedric was more than happy to direct Hermione in assisting him, and she did her best. Hermione knew this was probably very unorthodox to allow her help, despite her credentials. She felt it was a sign of how much Cedric must trust Harry– or at least, his professional judgement.  
The two worked uninterrupted for two hours. Despite the grim business, she and Cedric kept an easy conversation, interrupted by occasional findings and numbers that needed recording. Despite her preference for the living, Hermione found herself oddly enjoying the work.

"So I didn't ask you, why you came along today," Cedric said.

He was wrist deep in a chest cavity, while Hermione held the clipboard in her hand, poised for notes. She explained to him the coincidence of the morning's flat tour – a story which Cedric seemed delighted by, laughing particularly hard at the bit about Harry being caught in Tom's chest of weapons.

"I would love to have seen his reaction. But I'm sure it came to no surprise to Tom, right?"

Hermione cocked her head.

"That's right. I've noticed that he's very... perceptive."

Cedric shook his head and smiled.

"I don't want to see the day that Tom Riddle is surprised."

In her mind Hermione tried to assign an expression shock onto Riddle's impassive, cool face, and the task proved difficult.

"I've wondered, do you know what it is?" Hermione said with a laugh. "I mean, does he have photographic memory? Savant syndrome? Honestly I've been compiling a list of possibilities since I met him"

Cedric simply shrugged.

"I've wondered as well, but nothing totally explains the leaps he makes. It's just… Tom. That's 302 grams."

Hermione was delayed in registering his last few words, and hurridly copied down the figures. Cedric continued.

"I've known Tom for three years now. He did once try to explain it to me. Told me it was all simple deductions. For him, I think, it’s a bit like a party trick gone awry.”

She smiled, remembering how Tom looked at Slughorn's party, standing straight-backed in a doubtlessly expensive suit, looking like he expected to impress.

“The first time I met him, he asked me for my long-jump record in primary school, and when my next football match was. I hadn't even told him my name!"

"How did he know?" Hermione asked immediately. She'd stopped asking Tom himself, she'd realized. Immaturely, she already found she loathed reminding him how brilliant he was.

"He said it was because of my socks," he laughed, shook his head, then paused. "But I think he’s truly brilliant," he said. "He has quite a lot to share with the world, if the world could keep up with him… or accept him. That's 1.5 kilograms”

His genuine words struck her. She couldn't help but wonder again at the incompatibility of Cedric and his gruesome career.  The two lapsed back into focused silence, only speaking to exchange observations. Hermione did her best to keep up but her mind now strayed continually to Tom, and Cedric's words. He broke the silence suddenly.

"So, is it true? About the coffin?"

Hermione let out one of those short, surprised laughs.

“I think Harry took some creative liberties with that,”

Cedric smiled warmly. He had begun to wrap up the messy work, and clean up his tools. He turned away towards the sink, but called back to Hermione.

"So… you've known Harry for a long time, right?"

"Since we were 12," she felt softened by the memory. "We've been close ever since."

"And you two… did you ever..." he glanced over his shoulder at her. Hermione shook her head, unsurprised by the question.

"It was just never like that. He's like my brother. It was always me, Harry and Ron."

"Ron, I recognize that name as well."

"Our teachers called us the Golden Trio. We were inseparable, and very naughty," she laughed. "But no, there was never anything with Harry. But Ron and I, well, that did happen. But it didn't last very long."

"Ah I see," Cedric nodded. "The Golden Trio. It has quite a ring to it."

"Very fun, and very mischievous. We got into an impressive amount of trouble"

"I'd love to hear about it," Cedric said. "Harry's never really share much about his personal life."

"Oh, do you talk often?" Hermione was surprised.

Cedric seemed to almost color, she thought, or perhaps it was just the fluorescents.

"Just when he comes by. We talk about football." Cedric paused, before turning back to business, placing the cleaned tools aside and moving to the bodies. "He typically doesn’t stay for this part. I was surprised he stuck around at all today."

Hermione nodded.

"Harry cares a lot… about justice, I guess. I know it's what motivates him, and makes him such a great detective," Hermione said, biting her lip thoughtfully. "But he hates suffering, especially when he can't prevent it."

She sighed.

"I don't blame him," she added. "But he seems to think he needs to save everyone."

It was unsettling easy to share so much personal information with Cedric. His genuine nature was a bit infectious as well.

"And in terms of that personal life, well, he doesn't have much in the way of family."

She looked up at Cedric, scanning his reaction to see what Harry had shared. His face was open, curious.  
"I'm sure he'd tell you about his life some day. He doesn't hide it, but it's painful." She was chewing her lip again, a bad habit. "Ron and I, and our families, well we're essentially all he has."

"I never knew." Cedric said simply, his eyes filled with honest sympathy.

Why had Harry never mentioned Cedric? She wasn't sure if she should share any more, so she took the opportunity to change the subject.

"You should meet us on Friday for that pint Harry mentioned. We celebrate the end of the week in a pub near Harry's flat.”

Cedric was obviously delighted by the offer. His entire face lit up, but quickly sank at some revelation. He ran a now clean hand through his hair. Hermione couldn’t help but compare the man to a golden retriever.

"I would love to, but I have league practice on Fridays."

She wanted to laugh at his apparent depths of disappointment at missing such a mundane invitation, and assured him they could do it another time. Cedric had begun to store the bodies back into their plastic cocoons.

"I appreciate it. There may not be a practice anyway. We're down too many men."

"Oh, well, have you asked Harry?"

Cedric's head jerked up.

"Do you think he would want to?"

Hermione laughed.

"You should hear how often he bemoans the dissolution of the department's league. He's positively deprived."

Cedric smiled now as he put to bodies away. She wondered how he did this each day and went home alone. She ventured to ask as she washed her own hands.

Cedric seemed to have answered this question many times before. He explained that in the same way she helps people through her work as a surgeon, he helps through this. This work is was he found success in during medical school.

"I wanted to be a pediatric surgeon, originally. But I wasn't tough enough for the job," he joked. "So bloody cadavers it was."

“It’s isolating work," he continued. "And hard, and it can be gruesome... like yours. But I go home knowing, or I suppose just hoping, that I gave some people peace of mind. Perhaps some family.”

Against her better judgment, Hermione thought of the murdered boy’s family, and she understood what Cedric meant. How, in this indirect, silent way, they were helping.

Medicine could give these families concrete answers in a situation with no reason. And for the first time since arriving back home, she realized, she was excited to get back to work. She made a mental note to call the clinic Slughorn had referred. It wasn’t life saving surgery, but perhaps, it was better than that.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Tom, alone. His even voice disrupted the tranquil quiet of the large lab.

"Ready to go, Dr. Granger?"

She nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poppyhall: Finally back after an unexpected hiatus! Forgive any errors, I'm too excited to get this out to edit a bunch. Next chapter really soon. Shout out to RPats in Twilight and a Sherlock episode for some stolen paraphases. Comments/suggestions/advice are really welcome. I've never written anything so long or involved, so I'm happy we get feedback along the way.  
> Also! I've made a small side-blog on Tumblr to collect tomione and HP things I like. I can't follow back on it since it's not a main blog, but feel free to hmu there! My url is poppyhalls


	5. Chapter 5

"Mr. Diggory, you have an email from Potter," Tom said to Cedric, before looking back to Hermione. "He stayed at the station."

Tom was already walking out the door when Hermione turned to Cedric. Hermione didn't call after him to wait. Tom seemed to have his own pace, a tempo to his movements and actions, that he would break for nobody. 

"Thank you, Cedric, for letting me help today. I hope I didn't get in the way too much," she said, smiling.

Cedric waved her off good-naturedly.

"Your help was heaven sent. I would have been here until past midnight. It was great to meet you, Hermione."

He smiled then, and she returned it. 

"You as well. I'll see you soon for that pint with Harry and I!"

He grinned at her and nodded genially before striding over to a laptop, and she left the lab. She was half-way up the cold stairwell when Tom appeared from around the corner. They almost collided but Tom caught her by the shoulder, his grip harsh. 

"What are you doing?" she said sharply. Her startled voice sounded shrill as it echoed around the stairwell and she grimaced. 

His dark eyes were alight with the same frenetic energy as when they had first entered many hours ago. Only his somewhat disheveled hair reflected the hours of work. How long had it been, exactly? 

"I have to talk to Cedric. I forgot something. I'll meet you upstairs," he said, cooly and quickly before passing around her. He was around the corner before she could reply and Hermione watched him deftly reenter the double doors. 

Rolling her eyes at his dismissal, she turned to go, climbing back up to the dark entrance of this part of the hospital. The darkness outside and within felt oddly soothing to her after the harsh light of the lab. 

Her own mane of hair, which had been piled atop her head in a hasty bun, was now falling into her face haphazardly. She pulled it down and let it fall as she began to scroll through her missed messages.

She had texts from Harry, Mum, and an email from Viktor. The last one made her start just a bit, but she opened Harry's first. There were a handful of them, spread across the past few hours.

> Harry - Staying at station. May be here all night. Have your key? Call if not.
> 
>  
> 
> Harry  - Think you're moving out? Forgot to ask. OK if you don't. You're better about cleaning Hedwig's cage every week, anyways.
> 
> Harry - But I think flat is perfect for you, besides him.
> 
>  
> 
> Harry - Taking a coffee break, text me when you're done with Ced. 
> 
>  
> 
> Harry - I know I'm harsh about Riddle, but he's helped us make real headway tonight. He's almost as smart as you. Ha!
> 
>  
> 
> Harry - I take it back. Hate him. Take some pics of those old weapons next time you're there, I'm getting a warrant.
> 
>  
> 
> Harry - Hey, you alright after today?

She smiled at the messages. She'd miss living with Harry, now having already made her decision. This thought left her with an unexpected pang of sadness. She'd never lived in London without Harry. She wondered how often they would see each other when she moved out, and how London would feel without a familiar face nearby. She brushed off the feeling as best she could. She couldn't be rid of Harry even if she tried, and it was about time she built a settled life independent of her old friends.  

> Hermione - Done. And I'm totally fine. A bit tired, though! I'm excited to hear about the case. 
> 
> Hermione - We call him Ced? Haha. He reminds me of Charlie Weasley a bit. 
> 
> Hermione - Unfortunately the apartment is the perfect location and price. Too perfect. I'm taking it. As for Tom I have a feeling we'll stay out of each other's way. And I'm staying neutral in your rivalry!! (Swiss flag) 

Hermione's mom received a text about the flat, and an assurance that she was feeling well, would schedule an appointment soon (a lie) and was looking into a potential job (suddenly true). What was left of her furniture was sitting in her parent's attic, she'd need that. The email from Viktor was left for later. 

She had begun brainstorming an absurdly elaborate pulley system for her bookshelves when Tom burst through the door from the stairs and into the dark room, making Hermione jump at the sudden break in silence. 

He didn't speak at first, but leather shoes echoed on the linoleum tiles as he approached her, then paused. The smooth plains of his face we lit up in parts by the streetlamps outside, and the entire scene suddenly struck her.

Tom seemed to have a natural, almost unconscious flair for the dramatic. He could burst through doors and creep into rooms – she recalled his appearance in the flat just this morning. 

Some people could command and manipulate atmospheres, Hermione thought, and Tom was one of them. 

It was oddly reassuring, in some twisted way, how it seemed as though everything that occurred within and without Tom was deliberate on his part. You felt as though you yourself were in his play, and he knew exactly how his next scene would go. 

He was closer then, looking down at her. In his calculating expression, it looked as though he wanted to ask her something, but the now familiar ring of his phone broke the silence. He cursed and quieted it.

She wanted to ask who it was that had been calling him all day, but the fiery look in his eyes as he typed out a message made her think otherwise. More than anything, she was desperate to know about the case. And with Tom, she was beginning to sense that questions and answers were more like currency. She didn't want to waste hers. She waited until he looked up from his phone. His face was calm, save his eyes. 

She realized he'd caught her staring at him, again. 

"You look like you have questions," he said quietly. 

"I have three," she replied.

Tom laughed. It was a rich sound, but brief, and a little tight. 

"I assume they will take a while. Are you hungry?" he said, striding forward to open the front door for her. "There's a pub around the corner, it's somewhat good and I know the owner."

"Starving, actually... which I suppose is a bit odd, considering the day," she added with an awkward huff of laughter as she stepped out into the gloom.

He looked at her, apparently puzzled.

"I don't see how it's odd at all," he said as they started off towards what she presumed was the direction of the pub. 

His reaction had struck her. She was, in fact, lying. The day and its macabre work hadn't phased her in the least. But she thought that it should. And the fact that it did not, the fact that deep down it had thrilled her and engaged her more than anything since she'd arrived home, upset her. 

In ten minutes they had settled on either side of a comfortable booth, its table worn with depressions of cutlery and a few initials. But the pub was quiet and clean, and they ordered their on-the-house dinner directly to the owner. Hermione got a salad with grilled chicken. Tom ordered a large plate of chips and some chocolate pudding.

His dark eyes gamely met her own amused stare. But she broke first, laughing.

"I'm sorry, I guess I pegged you as someone with more… refined tastes."

He shrugged nonchalantly and settled back into the leather seats of the table.

"In a different setting, I'm sure I would feign a more sophisticated palate. But why not enjoy what I like?”

She wondered if it was a compliment, being someone Tom Riddle would order chips and pudding in front of. Or perhaps an insult.

"Oh I see. You have world believe you expect duck confit while you secretly prefer greasy chips."

He was smiling now, only a very little, but the expression changed him. His cold dark eyes became warm, and the sharp edges of his cheek and brow softened. Only slightly.

Hermione found herself grinning back. What's the word for him, she wondered. His affect didn't come wholly from his looks, although they were striking. She'd spoken with beautiful people before without feeling so affected. She knew some people had that way about them, but she herself had never honed any ability to influence people in the way Tom so naturally did.

Tom shrugged. How does one shrug so gracefully? Hermione decided as they were walking to the pub, as she was struggling to match his impressive strides, that Tom had taken some sort of ballet class in his youth. It would explain the arrow-straight posture, too.

"I suppose I could blame my upbringing for my classless preferences," Tom said, sighing. "But I don't consider it a fault, all told. Now," he began abruptly, smoothly terminating the thread of that conversation at his discretion, Hermione realized with some annoyance.

“You want to know about the case, I think," he said.

"Actually, I want to ask about your work, first," she said firmly. She had also decided on their walk that the nature of Tom's unknown life fascinated her just slightly more than the case. Solving the mystery of her soon-to-be flatmate was a more personally pressing to her than the mysteries that lay in St. Mungos. But she silently adding his 'upbringing' to her growing list of queries. 

Tom gave her a critical look, and looked on the verge of replying when a spike in the volume of a tv on the wall above Tom's head interrupted. The small screen announced the evening news, and promised the details of a grisly discovery along the Thames, after a short break.

Tom turned back to face her and quirked a dark brow, a look almost suggesting he'd conjured the interruption himself. Hermione absently thought the man would very good magician, or politician. 

"Wouldn't you rather hear about that first?" He asked, nodded over his shoulder at the screen, but he didn't look away from her.  

She pursed her lips. He avoided her questions, that much she understood. If he thought he could divert her from them, he didn't know Hermione. Nothing grated her nerves more than being left unanswered.  

But for now, she relented.   

"Alright. Tell me what you and Harry found out. Did you… solve it?"

The question sounded silly to her ears.

"No. I don't work miracles. I only helped Potter and his team fill in gaps, ask the right questions, you know," he waved his hand as though to reference the details of his work, of which she knew nothing.

"And I don't typically work the duration of the case," he continued. "Unless they need me. Moody will sometimes ask for me to come in at dead ends. Today was an exception. Being there at the start of it all was rather interesting. It's thanks to you I suppose."

He paused, staring off at some invisible distance over her shoulder, looking thoughtful and amused with himself. She waited, not feeling very patient, but afraid to break whatever willingness Tom had to suddenly give her answers. 

"I guess it starts with Colin Creevy," he began to speak slowly. "As you know, he disappeared a month or so ago in Dublin. It was a complete cold case, and no  _ obvious _ evidence pointed strongly toward runaway or kidnapping."

His emphasis on the word made her sit up straighter. Without warning, the movement shot a pain through her side like a stinging ache.

"But… you thought otherwise?" she prompted.

Hermione remembered seeing the young boy's beaming school photo in the paper, next to a photo of his parents, arms around each other on a couch, looking grieved. She'd skimmed the story during her stay with Ron and Ginny, sitting with them at the breakfast table. Tom nodded.

"It was reported at the time that the boy's account had been emptied by his own card that night," he said. "But police knew that the money could have easily been extracted by force. He left no note, and at face-value there was no reason for the boy to run."

"But…?"

"But I saw the photo of his parents. His poor, caring parents," his words had slowly taken on a new venom. "You see, the paper published the color photo online. I prefer reading the news there, it's easier to spot details. The boy ran away."

He spoke almost instructively, and looked at her as though she ought to be taking notes. She only nodded, too interested to be annoyed.

"How do you– why didn't you say so? Why didn't you report it?"

"Because no poor and caring father has knuckles like his."

"What?" she couldn't help but sounding incredulous. She could keep up with Tom most of the time, but his leaps sometimes lost her. Tom sighed, but not unkindly.

"Everyone saw that photo, the police, the public, but no one seemed to really  _ look _ it at," he said, sounding only distantly annoyed now. "If they had, they would have seen Mr. Creevy as what he is. An abusive alcoholic."

Hermione blinked.

"You think he beat his son? From a photo? But that's – oh come on Tom, a set of bruised knuckles doesn't mean–"

"The man had clearly never seen a gym, let alone one for boxing. I know what a poorly thrown punch looks like on a hand. On his face too, obvious broken capillaries and dry skin. Alcoholism. Not to mention what I'm almost positive was Ms. Creevy's liberal use of cover up. No one whose lost a son would take so much time sprucing up their clavicle bone, don't you think?" he said, his voice had taken on that cruel edge once more. "Colin had reason to run, and did. I didn't report it out of mercy."

His tone was final and definite, and Hermione believed him. He sighed again, sitting back. 

"But perhaps I should have. His eventual fate was far worse than that waiting for him in Dublin."

Hermione nodded slowly, thinking. It made sense that Tom felt guilty. She had not words to reconcile that.

"I suppose running away, rather than kidnapping, does make it easier to understand how he ended up in London," she said slowly. Then she thought of his tragic fate, and her mood darkened. The world wouldn't know half of what Colin had suffered.

Their food arrived but Hermione's appetite had dulled. She took a few bites and waited for Tom to clear some of his plate.

The commercial break above him ended with the channel’s chiming theme, followed by the details the both of them knew well, save a few details the authorities had not released to the media. They were calling the bodies the "Thames Three." It made the both of them grimace.

Tom pushed his plate back slightly and cleared his throat. There were no traces of whatever guilt had invaded his tone before.

"Hermione, I can't help but feel that today may be an omen for our partnership." he said, casually folding his hands. "An omen good or bad, that I can't say."

Hermione glanced down at his arms settled neatly on the wooden tabletop. They were musicians hands, she thought, graceful and long. They were lean and lithe like the rest of him.

"Partnership?" she asked, registering his words.

"As flatmates, of course," he amended, but his distracted tone said otherwise. 

"As for Creevy," he began, once again sharply pivoting Hermione's thoughts. "We had decided to start with the boy since he's been dead the longest. I told Potter what I thought about his disappearance and he decided it would be  _ just _ worth pursuing."

Hermione couldn't help but smirk at Tom's annoyed look. Harry and Tom's individual prides must clash terribly.

"Assuming he went from Dublin to England unnoticed, I managed to get surveillance tapes sent in from Liverpool through some connections of mine. The ports there are monitored closely, and I knew Creevy's appearance couldn't be more than 24 hours after he went missing."

Hermione realized she was leaning forward, and she straightened up. She felt that pang at her side. It was only then that she noticed how cloudy the night had become. She let out a slow breathe. If Tom noticed, he didn't say anything. 

"It was a guess, but I was right," Tom said. "He was off the first ferry of the morning. I know that Dulbin police would never have looked that far given all of the unknown variables but...  _ God _ it was so absurdly easy, if they'd just  _ thought _ ."

He sat back from his meal, looking provoked. Hermione appreciated his detailed explanations, but she sought out the point of concern now. 

"Do you know how he died?"

"Someone broke his neck."

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but she knew Tom was giving her an answer in his words. So it was murder, not an accident. 

"I'll try to be more brief," he said. "We were able to identify the other man. Ernie Prang. A lorry driver with no record or family. His boss reported him and his lorry missing last week."

He looked at Hermione pointedly. She wondered if she was missing something. 

"Tell me Hermione, what does a runaway have in common with a lorry driver and a grifting career criminal like Crow?"

Hermione just looked at him, until she realized he actually expected an answer to his riddle. She looked down and hid a smile while she thought. Riddle with a riddle. After a few silent minutes, she looked up. 

"They're all on the road. Traveling. That's all I can make out."

He hummed and nodded. It was a lovely sound.

"I'm aware that to most it all sounds like absurd leaps, but there are minute details that make it a cohesive deduction," he said. "The station received information on Prang's route, and Crow's bank card. Witness testimony from a shipment clerk and Prang's boss corroborate a story that lines up nicely with Crow's and Creevy's. It stands to reason that Creevy encountered Prang at a rest stop near Liverpool. Perhaps he agreed to give the boy a ride to his next destination, London. Crow's card paid for a large meal at that stop's diner the same night. They were murdered not long after"

"How?" Hermione said abruptly. 

Tom gave her dubious look. 

"I just gave you a summary of the work of the last few hours. This is what we know. Or think we know. It took quite a lot of resources to get this far."

Hermione nodded and sat back, she didn't think very hard before speaking. 

"You're incredible," she said simply. And she meant it. 

For the briefest of moments, an expression best described as bewilderment flickered across his stony face, before being snuffed out. Hermoine would have thought he heard that sort of thing often, but perhaps like her, most people thought the man all too aware of his own genius. Tom looked up at the ceiling then, musing.

"It takes time. And practice. But it's not incredible, by any means. Just deductions" Tom said, looking back at her. "I'll teach it to you, if you like. You have the aptitude."

"Why thank you," she replied dryly. Tom rolled his eyes. 

"You know you're clever, Granger, I'm simply saying that it's a skill you could develop well. It's a  _ compliment _ ," he said, sounding severe on the last word.

Hermione crossed her arms. The idea of learning Tom's… skill, it sounded interesting. More interesting than solving puzzles or reading crime novels. Perhaps even more interesting than the puzzling out she did as a surgeon, uncovering the roots of unknown ailments and maladies with a scalpel and steady hand. She doubted it, but knew she'd inevitably take him up on the offer. 

"So, what's next?"

Tom chewed a chip thoughtfully, and Hermione found her own appetite coming back as the knot of anxiety was slowly unwinding in her. 

"As much as I'd like to get it all sorted out now, a lot more needs to be done," he said. "I suppose tomorrow will take the officers to the truck stop. If they're very lucky, they'll find where Prang's lorry was that night, or speak with someone who saw the three. But they can't do that in the middle of the night." 

"You're not going with them?" she asked, incredulous. 

Tom made a dismissive waving motion. 

"I have a meeting."

Hermione couldn't help it, she laughed. 

"Tom Riddle, who the hell are you?" she said.

He smiled and cocked his head at her, bemused. She noticed how a lock of his hair was sticking up from behind his ear. His hair's natural shape was beginning to show with the late hour.

"I mean, what do you do? Really Tom, what sort of man are you, that you are solving murders on a whim today and go in to your meeting tomorrow?"

He chuckled with her now. He seemed to enjoy her incredulity. 

"I have very unforgiving clients, I'm just as likely to cancel a meeting as you are to postpone a surgery."

"They have to be postponed all the time," she said gamely.

"But you hate it," he said, eyeing her teasingly. He was exactly right, of course. She resisted the diversion.

"What's your job, Tom."

She was resolute, and waited for his reply. He sighed. 

"I've never given myself a title. I suppose consultant best describes my line of work. But sometimes I do business on my own. It's not just advising."

"So you consult for… businesses, politicians, court cases, what? Because you've already said the department work is rare."

He made an expansive gesture, palms up and face serene like a saint in stained glass. 

"I'm a freelancer. I like variety in my work," he said, settling back into the booth. "I suppose I found my knack for solving other people's problems in school. I could get classmates out of trouble easily, and did so often. 

"I could also get classmates into trouble, if I wanted," he added darkly. He paused, seeming to look for a reaction from her. Hermione simply motioned for him to go on.

"The friends I did have went on to become those businessmen and politicians and barristers, I did not. But they remembered me, and what I could do. At first it was a call here and there, asking me to look for loopholes in contracts or a weakness in a rival's reputation. Eventually I was being hired out by these people, and their people's people, to rescue damaging blackmail and attain acquittals from criminal charges. I'm rather good at my work, and it's not hard to come by."

Hermione nodded.

"I was on the other side of a criminal trial Moody had a vested interest in. I got the accused off with community service while Moody wanted him for first degree murder. Rather than commit such a crime himself against me, as I'm sure he wanted to, he brought me onto a cold case of his. I solved it in a week and I've been doing odd jobs for the station ever since."

His face lightened.

"But typically that involves receiving a load of paperwork and documented evidence from the department to solve out. I've rarely been called in into such... hands on cases. It's rather fun isn't it?"

He rapidly tapped the wood of the table with his index finger absentmindedly, and looked distracted. He continued without waiting for her answer.

"I haven't enjoyed a job so much in a long time," he said.

Hermione quietly thought of the bloated bodies on the slab, and tried, unsuccessfully, to feel disgusted by it. 

"I've felt very disengaged from my work lately Hermione," Tom continued, now pinning her with a hard stare that somehow looked beyond her. "But today reminded me what I seek out in doing what I do. The thrill of the chase, the game of it, that's what I like, that's why I do it."

He was suddenly more animated than she'd yet seen him. His dark eyes were alight and boring into hers, and it seemed as though he was speaking more to himself than her, but his words, and the force of them as he spoke, were entering her own thoughts and finding a likemind. 

She felt herself nodding. Today felt good. Dissecting bodies had interested her. Discussing murder had thrilled her. When was the last time she felt so captivated by something? Somewhere in Sudan, she thought drly.

"Which is why I spoke to Cedric," Tom continued after a pause. "I'm going to arrange to get some personal use out of the lab there."

"Are you still going to continue your other work?" she asked.

His lips thinned.

“Yes, but I’d like to scale it down. Tedious work. My clients will not make it easy.”

A drizzle was beginning to fall outside the pub's window, and Hermione shifted again, uncomfortable. 

"Barometric pressure?" Tom asked, his voice suddenly softer. It had a lovely cadence.

She simply nodded and looked outside. She was surprised to find herself unbothered by his asking. Of course he noticed, she thought, of course he knows.

"May I ask what happened?" Tom said. 

If Hermione didn't know any better, she would have said he sounded tentative. 

She swallowed and gave a small nod, and straightened back up. She might as well get this out of the way now. 

"It was my fault. You know I was in MSF, and maybe you know where my last assignment was. There was some conflict in the region but it was never very close to the area we were in. Then one day it was. We were told to stay on the hospital grounds that week and the compound always had an armed guard. I was working one day and–" she paused, and closed her eyes. "I saw them out the window. A crowd of people were helping to carry in a solider- a boy dressed as a soldier, towards the hospital. I could tell even from far away that he was seriously injured. But some of the men carrying him had guns and the guard wouldn’t let them in with them. They were taking too long and starting to shout and I ran out to meet them… stupidly. I’m really not sure what happened then. There was lots of shouting and shoving. I’d almost reached the boy when it happened. Someone misfired. Or a gun went off or- I have no idea. But I was in the middle of the crowd and suddenly-"

She cut off and shrugged. She tried to tell the story without bringing herself along through the memory, but the emotions she felt then crept up on her so easily. The fear, regret, pain. The worst of it was the after. Being on the table instead of looming over it. The fraught, frenzied departure and painful recovery. She finished the story quietly and quickly, staring at the table and at Tom’s pale hands.

“I was shot in the side. It missed any vital organs but at such a close range it did considerable damage. I was treated and flown out as soon as I was able to be moved. The scar is… pretty bad. The boy died.”

She had been so stupid. So unthinking. Her brilliance was, from time to time, eclipsed by her braziness. Harry said it was natural courage. But it wasn't. She'd failed her job.

Tom cleared his throat and jerked her from her thoughts. She suddenly realized how tight her throat felt. How heavy her eyes were. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Thank you for telling me. I'm sure you were doing incredible work there. It’s a shame.”

She glanced up at him, surprised. He had apologized, just like everyone else did when they learned what happened. But his reply was so different. Tom wasn't saying he was sorry she got hurt, or that she went through that experience. He was saying he was sorry that she had to stop working. 

And he was right, right at the root of what hurt her the most. Before she could reply, Tom's phone rang.

She saw him slowly close his eyes, and only the slight flex of his jaw betrayed his annoyance. Or was it rage? It was still hard for her to tell the extent of his emotions from his face. He made no move to answer the call.

Hermione was happy to change the topic.

"You’ve been in quite high demand today I think. That's got to be more than a dozen calls today."

"27, actually." he said shortly, then he opened his eyes and gave her a tight smile. "Do excuse me."

He swiftly stood from their booth and made for the door. She heard him answer the call before the door closed behind him.

"Abraxas if call one more time I will slit your-"

The door silenced him, but she didn't need to guess the rest. She wondered if it was family, or work. She realized that she still didn't quite know all about what Tom did, and what she was able to extract from him was rather hard-won, at the cost of her own truths. But she was also starting to feel that this was a part of knowing Tom – it took effort. And Hermione wasn’t afraid of a little bit of work. 

It was then that she noticed how empty the pub was, and how late the hour, so that when Tom re-entered she suggested they should be on their way. The barman was beginning to turn over stools. He glanced around and nodded.

“Split a cab?” Tom asked as he held the pub’s door open for her, and offering a wave a genial smile to the pub’s owner. 

She agreed. Harry wasn’t too far out of the way of 221B.

They got into a hailed cab and Tom promptly gave the driver the directions for Baker Street. Hermione gave him a pointed look. When he noticed it, he let out an honest to god laugh. 

“Ah, right.”

He gave the driver the address of Harry’s before she had the chance. She didn’t ask how he knew it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter is just… one big conversation. Tom is a monologuer. Action is coming I promise! Grocery shopping, a haunted school, threatending strangers, murder and… a party!!! I'm publishing this after 3 glasses of my sister's wine SO.  
> Reading the comments and feedback has been so awesome and motivating. I really appreciate all the kind words and can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter. If anyone wants to chat you can find me on poppyhalls.tumblr.com I've been using it to collect inspirtation for this story and just generally privately geek out about Harry Potter.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione's first two weeks at 221B were more eventful than the last three months put together. It began, after sorting out deposits and contracts, with many, many boxes. 

She had kept only the bare essentials at Harry's, but the moving van that arrived from her parents’ was packed tightly with plastic containers and furniture. Hermione didn’t remember having so much _stuff_. But when move-in day arrived, the task of carrying everything up two flights of stairs was expedited by Hagrid, who had, rather impressively, carried in half of her belongings by the time Harry arrived to help.

"Hermione!" called the now familiar, beaming face.

"Cedric!" she said from behind a tower of bins balancing precariously in her arms. "What are you doing here? Did Harry rope you into helping out?"

Cedric laughed and strode forward to give her a hand.

"Not at all, I volunteered, I'm happy to help,” he said, looking far too animated about the task at hand.  “I was about to pop out for lunch anyways so…”

Cedric paused to steady the containers in his arms.

"And I had to go by the lab today," Harry added.

Hermione found it a little more than odd that Cedric had apparently been taking his lunch break at 10 a.m., but chose not to point this out to Harry, who was struggling to get a good hold on a large cardboard box. She doubted he suspected anything.

"What have you got in here, gold bars?!” 

"Books," Hermione said briskly, before leading them into the flat and up the stairs, which were beginning to feel more numerous than before.

"And what’s our lovely flatmate doing today?" Harry asked. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and kicked the cracked door open wider, revealing Tom. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he knelt on the floor, stooped over one of her boxes, rifling through their contents and scrutinizing some of their titles. He had his mobile nudged between his ear and shoulder and was speaking what sounded like mandarin.

"Not helping," she grumbled, before turning towards the second set of stairs to her floor. 

With her friends' help, and hardly any on Tom's part, they completed the task ahead of schedule. Hermione rewarded her friends with lunch, and they chatted and ate while she assembled her new home on the third floor. She was excitedly informed by Harry that he had been invited to join Cedric's football league. Consequently, their lunchtime conversation was dominated by sports. But Hermione was nonetheless grateful Cedric had taken her suggestion. 

Hermione studied her best friend from across the floor, where they sat using overturned boxes as tables. Harry looked tired. Hermione knew that he tended to work odd hours when he had a large caseload, and would sacrifice far more sleep than was healthy in order to close a case. She worried that without her around to coax him to rest, to shut his computer, to come back to the flat for dinner, then he'd spiral out into his work. Again. But she reminded herself that Harry was, for all intents and purposes, an adult. He had managed just fine – or well enough – without her for years before they moved back in together. 

Besides, Harry had no shortage of people in his life who cared about him. She stole a glance at Cedric then. He was laughing at something Harry had said, and looked a little flushed. Hermione made a mental note to think more about this later. 

 

* * *

 

Her bad side ached terribly for a full week after the move, but after several days of dedicated unpacking, her large space upstairs was starting to look like her own. The respite in between her moving in, and the job interview she had arranged at Slughorn's recommended clinic, gave her time to settle into her new life.

For her first two days of tenancy, though, Tom was completely absent. He'd left without a word, only a note on the fridge that said Nagini would feed herself. She’d tried not to dwell on how the snake managed. 

Before she moved in, Hermione worried that she would be uncomfortable with a free range pet snake around the flat. She had always insisted on Ron keeping Scabbers in a cage when he wasn't holding the old rat. But Nagini seemed to keep to her owner's room, or at least out of sight. Tom, she noticed, had left his door open a crack. She'd taken that as a sign of Tom's trust. Or maybe he was testing her. Either way, she resisted taking a peek.

On the third day Hermione woke up just before dawn to the sound of music. She found Tom downstairs, in pyjamas, playing violin. She tried to be annoyed, but his music was lovely, and he offered to make her tea. She didn’t bother asking where he’d gone. Somehow she already knew Tom too well, knew he would tell her as long as she didn’t ask. 

Besides, Harry had been indulging her with short details about the Thames case. After that first day, things had become rather slow going. There was some type of conflict between what division had what case, and Hermione felt Harry wasn’t telling her everything. But she understood. She had nothing to do with this. Either way, she didn’t need to beg Tom for details just yet.

She expected some awkwardness, living with a man she didn't know truly well. Living with any man that wasn’t like a brother to her. But Tom's presence in the house was almost natural, like he was a part of the space, blending into his surroundings. 

Hermione didn’t know what his... preferences were, but she felt like that kind of question would be trivial to someone like Tom Riddle. Whatever natural tension she inevitably felt around him, Hermione thought, it was doubtless all her own. 

The only thing that startled her, much to her own amusement, was his attire. 

He stayed in the living room, and in pyjamas, for the remainder of the morning and early afternoon, switching between his violin and computer without a word while Hermione went about her own tasks  – laundry, hanging her curtains upstairs, reorganizing some kitchen shelves to fit her things. 

Hermione knew that rationally, Tom did not wear a dress shirt and trousers at all times, but the thought of him in anything else had never occurred to her. Nonetheless, Tom Riddle still made a faded shirt and joggers look expensive. Perhaps they were. 

At some point in the afternoon he entered the kitchen while she was storing away mugs, and broke the day's silence while he made himself some odd sort of sandwich that involved brie. 

"I'm surprised you haven't asked me where I was," he said to her turned back.

Hermione found herself smiling. 

"Honestly, at first I just thought you were giving me space to move in, before I realized you were gone."

Silence followed.

"Alright Tom. Where were you?" 

She turned around now, leaning against his– their counter.

"Hong Kong."

That explained the pyjamas at noon, Hermione thought. She now noticed the dark circles under his eyes, and his dark waves were just slightly unkempt. But of course, Hermione thought dryly, Tom's visible symptoms of jetlag only made him look rakish. 

"Business or pleasure?" she asked. 

Tom looked thoughtful at this, while he carefully layered lettuce onto rye. Hermione eyed the other ingredients on the counter and wondered what sort of sandwich the man had in mind. Not any that she had ever seen.

"I guess you could say I had the pleasure of suspending business dealings with a partner of mine," he said after a moment's pause.

"You flew to China just to quit?"

She knew it was probably more complicated than that, but Tom seemed to provide her with the most information when he was correcting her. Tom shrugged, but he made the gesture look elegant.

"This was not the sort of man you could email a two weeks notice to," he said, a crease forming between his brows. "Have we got any mustard?"

 _We_ , Hermione thought. Already so comfortable, or maybe just testing the waters. He must be used to living with others. She opened the fridge and shook her head. 

"Have you got a job interview?"

She turned from the fridge then.

"Did I tell you about it?"

She knew she hadn't, but was too stubborn to simply ask what gave it away. She resisted rolling her eyes when he smirked at her.  

“It was a good guess. You got a haircut while I was gone, and your nails are polished but they’re short. You're getting ready for something, but it's not a date.”

“I could be going to a reunion, or a conference,” she said, cursing herself inwardly for indulging him, rising to his challenge.

He nodded.

“Yes, but before I was introduced to you, Horace told me he was trying to find his favorite pupil a comfortable job in London. I think he called it an easy retirement from your… war days."

They both smiled, but Hermione shook her head.

“So you already knew, a manicure didn't give it away," she said, now seated on a stool across from him. "Why do you act like it's a magic trick?”

He cringed at the expression.

“I don't. I made note of things I saw, I contextualized it with previous knowledge. It's a very methodical procedure, Hermione.”

She couldn't tell if he was messing with her, but his monstrosity of a sandwich was complete and he began his meal in silence.

She rested her chin in her hand and considered him.

“You should teach a master class,” she said, teasingly. God, was she flirting with him? No, she thought, she'd be far more self-conscious. As it was, she was wearing an old sweatshirt of Ron's and her hair was still unbrushed. 

He chewed thoughtfully for a minute, unphased. 

“I'm not especially interested in lecturing," he said casually, but suddenly he gave her a pointed look. "It's just that you look so desperately interested by it all.”

Hermione blinked. He was watching her reaction, with something like a smile on his lips.

“I think, Hermione, that you love figuring things out. The more complex the problem, the higher the stakes, the happier you are.” 

Hermione had a feeling that Tom was describing himself.

“Well, wanting to be challenged is evident from my career path,” she said.

“Yes… although the neighborhood clinic position would be an outlier.”

For some reason this assessment stung coming from him. She hated how her reply sounded so wounded.

“We can't all be jet-setting business consultants.”

“Not business,” he corrected with a pointed finger. "Just consultant. And that's true, but I think you could make a good job of it, clever as you are.”

She scoffed, but her face felt hot. She thought once again how much she hated her weakness for praise.

“So you're saying I should be a freelance know-it-all too?”

He nearly choked on a bite of his sandwich then, trying to fight back his laughter and coughing. She took secret pleasure in surprising him, in seeing true shock and enjoyment on his face. He took a sip of water and smiled.

“Well, we get to pick our own hours,” he said, gesturing to his attire. 

They both laughed, and lapsed back into silence. 

"It's just..."

"What?"

"What gives you the right?... I suppose. I'm sorry that sounds rude, but it sounds to me like you lack the sort of experience or qualifications these sorts of jobs necessitate."

"That is true," Tom said, nodding slowly. "Nothing gives me the right. I haven’t a proper law degree or… I just do it. I'm good at it. I have the right skills.”

“It doesn't sound like very good job security,” she said, but already she had more questions for him lining up in her mind. Cases. Crimes. She really was ridiculous, but she'd ruled out adrenaline junkie a long time ago. She still had a fear of heights.

She glanced at the clock and quickly excused herself. She had to get dressed for her interview. Upon entering her bathroom she was greeted by Nagini in her bathtub. When she screamed, Tom's voice called leisurely from down the downstairs . 

"You can use mine."

Her reply echoed down the stairs.

"Get your snake out of my bathroom."

There was a moment of silence, and when Hermione stuck her head outside of the bathroom door to yell once more, red faced and clutching her towel, she spotted Tom already walking up the stairs, his hands in his pockets. She could see him trying not to laugh. When he reached her bathroom door, he gave her a dubious, mocking look. Her face burned but she barely gave it a second thought. 

"You need to get used to her," he said.

"When she pays rent, I'll share. Until then, she stays out."

He sighed and shouldered past her into the bathroom, from which he reemerged with the snake draped around his shoulders. It looked very regal. 

"She's just moody," he mumbled as he descended the stairs. "She always sulks upstairs when I come home from trips."  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. This chapter is so short! And boring! That's my bad. I've realized that when my writing goes past 6 pages I bail out Hard. SO. Small chapters from now on. This is a learning process for me, and I know this chapter isn't the best, like at all.  
> Bright side? This is a quarter of a looong chapter that has been sitting in a folder collecting dust for months. Going to be churning out those good ones soon. And I haven't forgotten about the case! It will be resolved. Just realistically, Hermione won't be involved in the process of sleuthing....... for now~  
> Thank you for all the comments! I’m always so excited to hear from people reading and what your thoughts are. If you want to chat, I'm on Tumblr!  
> Thanks for the edits DreamingOfAndromeda <3


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